The Forge
by duchessofdisaster
Summary: Alaric is a dragonslayer who has been summoned to a village to kill a dragon reputed to be the largest anyone has every seen. The night he arrives, he meets Damon in a tavern, and they feel an instant connection. Damon is a weredragon, hiding his identity and living as a blacksmith. He doesn't like it when people try to kill him.


Warnings: Slash, fire, weredragon!damon and dragonslayer!alaric.

Based on this amazing AU gifset: post/90403497939/damon-au-event-theme-1-supernatural-damon

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It's a fair-sized village, and it's pretty enough. Cobbles line the streets and everything is in decent repair. Alaric nods to the curious onlookers as he moves toward the castle, looking forward to something good to eat, and a soft bed. He crosses a wide moat that smells filthy with algae, and feels some pity for any attackers who might find themselves in it.

He is met by one of the Lord's knights. Tall and fancy, well groomed, relatively clean; not what Alaric generally expects from a warrior. He smiles, but his eyes are entirely devoid of emotion. His dress mail gleams in the late afternoon sun.

"Show me where I'm to sleep," Alaric says. He won't kowtow to someone who prefers his armor clean to well-oiled. "And I'll need to dine."

"There's a tavern. You can stable your horses here, but unless you wish to share their hay, there's no room for a guest."

"I'm not a guest," Alaric says. "You'll find room."

The knight is only waiting to hear whether Alaric intends to sleep in the barn, and immediately, Alaric thinks, well, cads, slay your own dragon; I'm done with you. But the truth is he has nowhere pressing to be, has been promised double his usual purse, and though he sincerely doubts the rumors of the creature's size he is looking forward to swelling his own legend by slaying it heroically.

Besides, once the dragon is dead, he'll be welcomed back with open arms, and undoubtedly his first pick of the local courtesans. And it's been a dry month or two.

"Tell your master it's not a good idea to show such blatant disrespect for one whose services he's called upon. Unless he can afford to lose any more livestock." He climbs down from his horse's back, and takes his ruck, leaving the weaponry divided between the horse he rides and another, who carries the extra load.

"I know every object they carry between them," he says. "See they're stripped off, well fed, and put away brushed and content. And if anything's missing when I return tomorrow afternoon, I'll hold you personally responsible." He pulls a small coin purse from a pocket.

"No need to pay me," the knight says, disgusted. Alaric grins.

"No, I wanted to show you the purse. Unusual, don't you think? I made it myself."

The knight wrinkles his nose. "I see you have a number of talents, then. It looks like a…"

Alaric interrupts. "That's exactly what it is. The last man who tried to steal from me – I fed his balls to a stray cat, but I kept the sack. It's small, though. Doesn't carry a lot of coin. Maybe one day, I'll make another. Tell Lord Giuseppe I'll be anticipating his warm welcome on my return."

He winks, though there is no warmth in his expression, and he wraps a fur around his shoulders, and heads in the direction of the gate.

It doesn't take long to find the tavern. Alaric orders mutton, potatoes, spinach, a hunk of bread, and a tankard of ale, and takes his seat at a table under a thatched canopy. A lantern sits at his left, firelight dancing over Alaric's hand. When he looks up, Alaric sees a man watching him from a table nearby. Hair so dark it might be black, hanging in loose curls over his neck and shoulders, and eyes so pale they might be silver. He doesn't turn away when Alaric returns the look, but his glance drops to the scabbard on Alaric's hip for a moment. Alaric returns to his meal.

Moments later, the man approaches.

"May I?"

He asks in a way that says he doesn't generally _do_ polite, and this is as good as it gets; but while he looks strong enough, Alaric could overpower him easily, so there's no harm. He pulls the sword from the scabbard, and lays it on the table.

The main sits opposite him, and studies it for a long moment before lifting it. He balances it on one finger almost immediately, identifying the center of balance easily. He examines the blade, flips it over.

"Japanese," he says.

"Well-spotted," Alaric says. "It cost me a great deal of coin, but it was well worth it."

"I'd taken you for the dragon slayer, but these are better suited to decapitating men."

Alaric smiles. "I do what I have to. That's not what I use for dragons. Very, very strong, but they buckle against the hide eventually."

"Falchion?"

"They shatter." Alaric is impressed. "You know swords."

The man shrugs. "I should. Swordsmith, and blacksmith. Damon," he says, offering his hand, and Alaric accepts it, shaking briefly. Instead of pulling away, he turns Damon's hand over, and examines it briefly.

"You have the hands of a nobleman, not a swordsmith. Unscarred. Alaric." Still there is the scent of smoke about him, and of burning coals.

"Alaric. Not all swordsmiths are equal in skill. I'm neither clumsy nor stupid. I don't get burned." He doesn't talk much like a working man, either. More like a noble. He turns to raise the attention of one of the serving girls, who gives him a lascivious smile, and pours him a tankard of ale, bringing it to the table. She gives him a smile, leaning altogether too close to the table, revealing a generous bosom which does draw the eye.

"One for my friend, as well," he says.

"You've made me make two trips."

"I wanted to see those _magnificent_ breasts twice. Off you go."

He has an easy, flirtatious manner, but it's difficult to imagine that it's much more than an act, as there is an underlying loneliness to his entire bearing. He gives Alaric a wink, and pushes the sword away.

"So what manner of sword to you use to slay a dragon?"

Alaric wipes up the last of the gravy with his bread, and pushes the plate away. "Not a sword. And I don't spill my secrets easily."

"There's plenty of ale, I'll learn your secrets eventually. Why aren't you at the castle?"

"You ask a lot of questions."

"Do you know how often we get strangers around here?" Damon shrugs. "So?"

Alaric considers for a moment. "It was suggested I take a room here – or bed down with my horses."

There's a moment of confusion on Damon's face, and then he throws his head back to laugh, and the laugh sounds rather forced. "My father. His hospitality leaves a lot to be desired."

Alaric almost chokes on the last of his bread. "Your father?"

"I am my mother's bastard son. I'm reliably told I'm the very image of a traveller to the village the week of the great and ugly Lord Giuseppe's nuptials to her. The moment he had a real heir, I was banished from the castle. My mother died in childbirth, so there was nothing to be done for it. Blacksmith took me in, and I apprenticed to him." He shrugs.

This seems like an awful lot of very personal information to be giving to a stranger, and Alaric finds himself amused. He nods, and raises his tankard to his lips, holding Damon's gaze. He drinks deeply – it's good ale, and there's another coming – and rests his elbow on the table a moment.

"Why would you tell me this?"

Damon shrugs. "I think you should know what sort of a man will be lining your pockets – or won't, since this is one dragon you cannot kill."

Alaric chuckles. "I haven't failed yet, though I hear he's a brute – enormous."

Damon smiles. "Hubris."

"Please, impress me."

Damon shrugs. "He _is_ enormous. Seems strange to me that anyone would call him a brute. Other than the slayers sent after him, he's only killed one man in the years he's been here. A lot of sheep, certainly, but so do we all." He nods towards Alaric's plate, pointedly. "Breathes plumes of fire unlike anything you've ever seen, and his hide is always alight. Trust me, it won't be easy."

"Nothing worth doing is easy," Alaric says, turning a ring on his hand.

"Let me see." Alaric holds his hand out. "Is this a trinket they give out to all the dragonslayers, or just the one who slew the wyvern of Aberdeen?"

Alaric laughs. "So you have heard of me. It's a family heirloom," he lies, easily, as he always does. "Now tell me about the village." Because he likes Damon's company, and his lips, and he has a strange sense that if he dances slowly enough, he'll find they share similar proclivities, and his night might go better than he'd first imagined it might.

They're pleasantly drunk, when the tavern closes. They stand only reluctantly, and before Alaric can suggest he should ask about the room, Damon stands altogether too close, and says he has space, because Damon's master died some years ago, and there is a spare bed, if Alaric thinks he'll need it. He says it with his eyes on Alaric's mouth, and his own tongue darts out to moisten his lips, and Alaric nudges him, and off they go. It's a longish walk in the dark, but Damon clearly knows the path between the tavern and his own home very well; because before long, they're at a small mill. Two rooms. The front is the forge, with the coals still smoldering brightly, and through a door with a curtain over it is Damon's living quarters.

Alaric pauses to admire a sword.

"This is beautiful work," he says, suddenly absorbed. He slurs a little, but only a little.

"It is," Damon says firmly, taking the sword out of Alaric's hands ad setting it aside firmly, bunching his hands in Alaric's shirt and pulling him through the door. "But I have a much nicer sword back here. I think you'll like it."

He presses Alaric against the wall, and Alaric feels his arms go around Damon's body before he knows it will happen. Their lips meet in a bruising kiss that wrenches an embarrassingly needful sound from Alaric's throat, as his tongue pushes past the bow of Damon's mouth.

This will be a far, far better night than Alaric had anticipated.

Damon pulls Alaric's shirt over his head, and Alaric pays him a similar courtesy, though the treat is entirely his; Damon's body is sleek and pale and almost hairless, and Alaric wants to explore every inch of it with his mouth. His shoulders are broader, and his arms larger than they had appeared in the loose shirt. Alaric pulls away, and sits on the edge of the bed to unlace his boots, the leather thong that wraps a dozen times over the soft leather.

When he looks up, Damon is sitting on his knees, one hand on the thin mattress, the other behind him, and unless Alaric is terribly mistaken, he's working himself open with his hand.

"Not that the local ladies don't offer plenty of distraction," he says, voice entirely wrecked, eyes heavy-lidded, "but this is a pleasure which is all too rare."

Alaric's cock is heavy in his hand by the time he gets his trousers off. "Turn around," he says. Damon gives him a filthy smile, and complies, and the sight of him fingering himself open with some thick oil is almost enough to curtail the night's activities. Alaric feels himself leak heavily into his own hand, lips swelling to where he thinks he couldn't say his own name. Damon is nothing if not dedicated to this task, and his body is so beautiful Alaric could watch this all night.

He hears a strange yearning sound, and realizes it is coming from between his own lips. He reaches one hand out to travel over the curve of Damon's hip, and grip gently.

"Come here," he says, and Damon turns around. His eyes are very dark, only a slim ring of silver around the edges of his enormous pupils. Beautiful, and debauched. He pushes Alaric back against the wall, and straddles his lap, while Alaric guides himself inside.

Their eyes fall closed almost simultaneously.

Damon feels far stronger than Alaric would have guessed he was, in this neat frame, and the lack of scars on his skin is still shocking. His hands are soft as buttermilk. He scratches down the length of Alaric's back as Alaric begins to rock into him, sinking deeper all the time, and wondering, when all of this business is done, maybe he could settle in a village like this. If this was his treatment after the day's work was done, he could be tempted.

"Damon," he grunts, as Damon suddenly clenches around him, and he kisses the rude smile off Damon's face in the moment that comes next. Damon shifts his mouth from Alaric's lips, to his jaw, following it to his ear, nipping gently at the lobe, and then biting more roughly into the met of Alaric's shoulder. "Yes."

He changes rhythm, suddenly, harder and faster, as Damon dribbles profusely between their stomachs.

"You're so warm." He's just noticed this. Damon's skin, it's almost hot. And yet he barely sweats; a thin layer of perspiration over his face is all the evidence that he is working hard.

And yet, he is working hard.

Alaric comes with a savage shout, filling Damon, who clenches around him again, and rests his forehead on Alaric's shoulder. He is suddenly utterly still, and Alaric hadn't thought he could be. He seems to be always in motion, fiddling with something, twitching minutely, like lightning stirs his veins where most people have only blood.

Alaric drapes his arms around Damon's body, tracing circles against the flesh. It's a surprisingly affectionate moment, and then Damon draws back, studying Alaric's face.

Whatever he's looking for, he seems to be satisfied, because after a brief swipe of two ruined mouths, he climbs out of Alaric's lap, and lies on the bed, pulling Alaric down on top of him.

The kiss a little while, but Alaric can't be satisfied until he's tasted Damon's body. Touched every inch of him. Slower, languid, he kisses down Damon's throat, enjoying the way it seems to make him purr. Tongue darting out from time to time, but there is barely the hint of salt on his burning hot skin. It's a cold night, but Alaric is barely aware of it. He grazes teeth over nipples that harden into precious gems, and Damon grunts, whining again as Alaric soothes the skin with his tongue.

He closes his hand around Damon's heavy cock, feeling it swell against his palm, and when he looks up, Damon's eyes are closed. Anticipatory. That fascinating pink tongue darts out to wet his lips again. His mouth falls open when Alaric licks the very tip of his proud cock, pressing into the slit, and impatient, one hand finds Alaric's head, pushing him down.

Alaric obliges, slipping his mouth over the reddish purple tip, so pretty, laving over it with his tongue, tasting bitter and salt, and moving slowly over the shaft. He opens his throat and angles his head to take all of Damon into his mouth, nose butting up against the pubis as Damon tightens his hold on his hair and groans obscenely. He mutters words Alaric can't identify as Alaric closes his hand over his balls, squeezing gently, and bucks his hips involuntarily. Alaric is momentarily robbed of breath, but he can't force himself to care. He slips one hand down between Damon's buttocks, and finds his ruined hole, slipping two fingers inside, hooking them until he finds the secret spot two few men know they have, and rubs it gently.

The effect is nearly instantaneous. Damon fucks into his mouth furiously, and comes with a shout that must wake half the village. Alaric swallows him down, clearing ejaculate as he pulls up slowly, and slips his fingers back out. He rests his palms heavily against Damon's thighs and watches him recover, and it might be the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. Cock slowly softening against the stickiness of his stomach. Alaric cocks his head as Damon relaxes at last, putting both hands behind his head and giving him a fond, wicked smile.

"It's a small bed," he says. "I can sleep in the other."

"No," Damon answers, shifting closer to the edge. "Come here."

Alaric stretches out behind him, pressing his chest to Damon's back. It takes a long time for his heart to come to rest again, especially with his lips still moving gently over Damon's shoulder. He should sleep, but he's energized by desire; for perhaps the first time in ten years, with the desire to stay where he is for a good long time.

It's a nice dream. He can indulge it a while. He can imagine putting his bags away, learning to forge metal, applying his knowledge of weaponry of all types to the art and craft Damon has perfected. Silver arrow tips for the werewolves that roam the forest at night.

Damon shifts in his arms, turning until they are face to face, and Alaric kisses him again. Damon cups his cheek.

"I've heard there are dragons that walk as men," he says. Alaric shakes his head.

"It's a myth. I've been doing this for a long time. And I've never seen a hair of proof."

Damon considers this for a moment. "That tells you nothing, save that they are _rare_, or hide themselves well, or both."

Well, true enough. Still. Alaric won't believe in faeries, either, until one bites him on the thumb. He pulls at the long hairs at the nape of Damon's neck.

"Don't do it," Damon asks him, bluntly. "Don't go out there tomorrow. The dragon takes what he needs. He's killed only once, I told you that. If you go out there, it won't be to kill a monster. Just a nuisance for my fa- for the Lord of this miserable village. And you can't win. You'll die instead. Stay," he says, voice quiet, and urgent. "Just stay with me."

Stay with me.

Alaric frowns, and turns his face away. Even if he wanted to – this is not an arrangement anyone would find acceptable. And he has a job to do. Whatever misguided notions of dragon nobility that Damon has, they're dangerous. When they run out of livestock, it'll be people, next.

"I can't," he says. "But I'll be alright."

Damon's face is suddenly heavy with regret.

"I could have loved you," he says, turning away again, and settling against Alaric's body. "Still, we got this night."

The make love again in the morning, Alaric holding Damon to the bed, a hand pressed between his shoulder blades as he moves slowly inside him, moving to a crescendo with his hand around Damon's cock, pulling and twisting until Damon is panting his name, and they lie together a while after, Alaric basking in the warmth of Damon's body. It's close to noon, the sun high in the sky, when Alaric heads out, fully nude, to bathe in the cold stream. Damon joins him there as well, and they spend enjoyable minutes, each ensuring the other is quite clean.

Damon watches from the second bed as Alaric laces his boots.

"I'll ask again. And I'll keep asking you until you walk away. Don't go out there tonight."

"And I'll say I must, and I'll see you afterwards."

"You'll be dead."

"No," Alaric says, genuinely irritated now. "The dragon will be slain, your village will be safe, and I'll come back."

"If you come back, I won't be here," Damon says. "Go on, then. Go. There's rocky cliffs out above the ocean. You'll find him there. If you go to the castle now, it'll take you until dusk to get there on horseback. That's where you'll find him."

"Damon…"

"Just go." And he leans with his elbows on his knees, and Alaric leans to kiss the crown of his head, and goes.

After meeting with his employer (and it's true, there's no trace of Damon's feline features on the man's face – no trace at all) Alaric takes his horse and sets out for the cliffs. It's not dusk when he gets there, but the light is low. Peering past the cliff's edge, he can see a cave above the shoreline, a long way below. It has to be the dragon's home.

He settles his weapons about his person. The shield he carries, made from dragon hide, which fire cannot burn. He raises one foot on a large rock to watch, and wait. It may take hours. He's fought dragons at the very edge of dawn, and knows they won't be drawn out until they are ready to fetch the evening's meal.

"Hello," says a voice, and Alaric turns, and the voice, as he fears, is Damon's. The breeze whips his hair about his shoulders, and he looks beautiful.

"You shouldn't be here," Alaric tells him. "It's too dangerous." The thought of Damon being taken up in clawed hands is too horrible for words.

"I told you I'd be here."

The words make no sense at all; and then, suddenly, terribly, they do. "No."

Damon shrugs. Although his face is impassive, his eyes are indescribably sad. "Around the time I started growing hair between my legs," he says. "That's when it happened. I started to turn. The full moon, I have no choice. The rest of the month… it overcomes me, suddenly, or I change because I choose to. Flying is… there's nothing in the world like it." He tips his face up to the sun. "And you'll see, in a minute, what I mean, when I say you can't defeat me. But I'll beg you, one last time. Leave this place. Stay with me. I only take what I need to take. No one should deny another living creature the right to feed."

Alaric's head hurts terribly.

"The only chance you had to kill me was last night, and you bedded me instead. We're vulnerable when we wear a human body. You could try right now, I suppose. You have a moment or two left to live."

Alaric's hand closes over the hilt of his spear. "No," he says again. "It's not possible." Damon's eyes have gone cruel and dead, and a moment later, there's a golden glow to them.

"Remember you came here to kill me, Alaric," he says, and the fire of his eyes seems to engulf his entire body.

The next few moments go so very slowly it's impossible to believe they pass at all – and they're over so quickly Alaric can barely process what he is seeing. As the last of the sun disappears from the sky, Damon's body seems to distort. He screams in so much pain that Alaric is quite provoked to run to his aid, but the mood passes quickly. The flames rolling off him send Alaric flying backwards, towards the cliff, and it's true; this is the largest dragon he's ever seen, the largest he's ever _heard_ of, by anyone whose description he would give a scrap of credence to. The wings look incredibly heavy and strong, buffeted by the hot winds created by Damon's own breath. Almost black – or perhaps the reddish tinge is an illusion borne of the fire which ripples over the tough hide like a second skin. This is why Damon's skin bears no scars from the forge. Dragons can't be hurt by fire. This is why his skin is hot and dry; it's always inside him, the beast.

And he's _beautiful_. Utterly beautiful. Alaric is not prone to the use of poetic words, but majestic is the one that comes to mind. Alaric thinks with the deep sadness of one who knows he has no choice that will be a pity to destroy him.

When Damon's body has settled into its new form, so long and elegant, great leathery wings burning hot and red, talons so big they can't be believed, Alaric realizes the truth of it;

No man could slay this dragon and live.

(His horse seems to know. Alaric hears hooves drumming hard against the ground, and hopes the poor beast gets far enough away so he won't become a meal. She has a knack for getting away. Perhaps she'll be alright.)

Alaric, who slew the Wyvern of Aberdeen, who fought for a day and a night against a vibria that crossed the ocean from France, that destroyed countless crops and dozens of children… he can't kill Damon. And he doesn't want to. And yet, he has to try.

Damon is high above him, turning in the air, and Alaric imagines that in the village, people are cowering in their huts. Lord Giuseppe is sitting in his dining room, gorging himself on goose and wondering if there is the slightest chance that Alaric will return alive, and weighing the gold he doesn't want to part with against the meat he loses once or twice a month.

Alaric sends up urgent, frantic prayers to the God he's never been sure he believes in; and the older gods, too, hoping for a place in a kingdom after this one. And that this death will be swift.

As Damon bears down on him, breathing fire, Alaric holds out only the shield. It cannot be burned; but the heat of the flames sets the metal frame burning bands across Alaric's arms, and he cries out as he tries to push it off his seared flesh. And Damon shoots out over the water, miles and miles, and then back again to torment him some more. By the time the second shot of flames is there, Alaric has made peace. He stands with his arms out, waiting. It's the only apology he knows how to make.

He has the momentary horror of the skin on his body actually melting. He smells his flesh cook. The fire he breathes into his lungs is actually what kills him, but he doesn't know that.

Hours later, Alaric wakes to the decidedly unpleasant sensation of his horse butting her muzzle against his body. Although it's more pleasant that the flesh melting from his bones, so he copes.

He is freezing cold. It's not yet dawn, though that is close. He's not wearing a stitch of clothing, and his teeth rattle terribly. He sits up, trying to make sense of what happened. Examines his body for wounds, for burns, and there are none.

On his hand is a ring. He's been wearing it for so long he has almost forgotten he was once told it would protect him from all manner of creatures, and truly, he'd never believed a word, had worn it because he loved the woman – faithless and fickle, as it turned out – who had given it to him.

Around him, the grass is dead and burnt. The tortured saplings which last night had bent over the cliff are not even blackened twigs; there is nothing left of them. Alaric shakes his head in wonder, and rubs his arms, trying to promote the circulation.

He climbs uncertainly to his feet, looking around. "Good girl," he says, patting the horse's flank. She hasn't shaken her pack. He has clothes tucked away, as burns are not altogether unusual in his line of work. No shoes. He'll have to purchase some. In the meantime, he dresses quickly, grateful for the protection against the cold wind. He climbs onto the horse's back, pulling a fur over his shoulders, and squeezing his calves around her body, to start her on their way.

It's well and truly morning by the time he is able to spot the forge in the distance. The little mill by the side. He can hear the rhythmic hammer of stone on metal in the clear morning.

He dismounts a short distance away, and walks barefoot to the door, leaning against the stones until Damon notices him. Damon's hair, all that beautiful dark hair, is tied back severely with a strips of leather. He looks up, alarm in his pale eyes, and grips the hammer, as though to defend himself with it, but Alaric stays him with a hand.

"You owe me boots," he says. Damon stares at him for several long moments, and puts down the hammer. Alaric follows him to his living quarters, and stares longingly at the bed, lost for a moment in memories. Was it really only two nights ago, they tested the limits of the simple bed frame?

Damon hunts through a pile in the corner, and hands him a pair. Good leather. Too big for Damon. "Whose are these?"

"They belonged to my master," Damon says, with a shrug. Alaric sits on the edge of the bed, and slips his feet inside, lacing them as slowly as he can, searching for words. Something, anything, to make this right.

"I could stay," he says cautiously. He wants to stay.

"You tried to kill me," Damon says, incredulous.

"Yeah, well, you did kill me, so perhaps we could call that score settled."

Damon crosses his arms protectively over his body. "You mean to kill me in my sleep."

"I wouldn't." It sounds weak. "I won't."

Damon looks at the ground. Alaric waits agonizing seconds longer, and shakes his head sadly. He moves across the room, and cups Damon's face with his hands. Damon stiffens, but doesn't pull away, so Alaric leans to kiss him. Perhaps the gesture is partly returned.

"For what it's worth," he says, when he pulls away, "I could have loved you, too."

His welcome at the castle isn't warm. Lord Giuseppe is an entitled ass, and probably drunk, and he accuses Alaric of cowardice for having come back alive. Alaric is unmoved. He threatens Alaric with imprisonment, and Alaric is unmoved. He promises to tie him to a tree and let the dragon take another turn, and this sounds almost pleasant, because perhaps that way Damon would talk to him again.

"Let me ask you a question," he says. "Other than the slayers you've sent before me – all of whom I assume are dead – how many people has that dragon killed?"

Lord Giuseppe fumes and paces, and doesn't answer.

"One. Am I right?"

"He kills plenty of sheep. We need that meat."

"I can see you're very hungry," Alaric says, not bothering to hide the mockery in his voice. "My advice to you is to let him take what he needs, and be grateful he doesn't kill people. He's enormous. Easily three times the size of any dragon I've slain, and I've slain dozens."

"I think your reputation false," he hollers. "You are a liar, and a thief."

"I think this conversation is done," Alaric says. "Good luck to you, my Lord."

He is not prevented from leaving. He takes his second horse, and all of his belongings, and he heads towards the gate. Past it, and into the village proper. He doesn't spare a moment to yearn for the comfort of Damon's arms, or his bed, doesn't even glance at the mill as he passes, until he hears his name called.

Damon looks hurt and furious, hands clenched into fists at his sides. A dark streak of soot decorates his cheek. Alaric can imagine him scratching it absently, and never noticing, and it makes him want to climb down and clean his face for him.

"Do I have to leave?"

Alaric frowns. "Leave?"

"Did you tell them?"

"What? No," he says. "No. I wouldn't." Damon stares suspiciously at him for a few moments longer, and then nods, and turns back towards the forge. "Damon," he calls. "Wait."

He climbs down off the horse, and jogs gently to meet him.

"I was wrong," he says. "I was wrong, but you should have told me."

"I did tell you. I said if you slew the dragon, I wouldn't be here when you got back. I told you about my kind. I can't be blamed if you're an enormous, stupid brute who can't make sense of the most obvious clues when they're shoved down your throat."

It stings. Alaric prepares to yell back, but Damon steps closer.

"Last night – I told you. I met you where I said I would meet you, I told you what I was, and you reached for your weapon. So forgive me if I can't see this working out. No hard feelings. Get on your horse. Never come back." He turns away, and Alaric knows he's right – not for the reasons he's just offered, but because Damon, despite being a versatile and enthusiastic lover, is a pain in the ass.

A month later, near Kent, Alaric is called upon to slay another dragon. A child thief; the village is mourning terribly. The boy who was sent to fetch him his ridden over half of the countryside in search. The dragon is a true monster, and the purse is adequate, and the fight is vicious – but Alaric is victorious. He is taken after the celebration to a village two days' ride away, and meets there with a rotund and angry landowner.

"How many people has your dragon killed?" he asks.

"None. Yet. But he takes our cattle, or sheep. Three or four a month."

Alaric shakes his head. "You should think yourself lucky," he says, and refuses the job.

Over the coming months, rumors of his cowardice grow. Tales are distorted, as tales are wont to be, but he stays firm. If people are not dying, Alaric will not kill their dragon. He wonders, one night, as he lies under the stars, if Damon has heard the rumors, if he understands what they mean. He chews slowly on dried meat, and listens to the quiet huffing of his horses, and tries to remember what Damon smelled like, but all he can remember is smoke, the soot of the forge.

In midsummer, he returns to the village. It has been a month since he was asked to help a village with a dragon problem, the longest stretch without work he's ever had. He may not be able to dissuade other slayers from acting in haste – after all, there is plenty of work, and plenty of coin, for the undiscerning hunter – but he knows he'll never be asked again, and he has found peace with it. He has money enough to lease land, if he's allowed to stay, and he does have a plan which might allow him to be. And he's tired, and he craves a warm body to hold, and maybe, just maybe…

He dismounts a little way from Damon's forge, and walks the rest of the way. He leans against the door, listening to the clatter of stone on metal.

Damon looks up. His feral face is dark with soot, and he looks cautious, but neither angry nor sad.

"Well, well," he says, dropping the sword in a stone bath to cool, and setting aside his mallet. "If it isn't the cowardly dragon slayer. You're the laugh of the continent."

Alaric chuckles. "That I am. Returned with my tail between my legs, to beg forgiveness. I couldn't do it anymore. Not without asking questions. Still sticking to sheep?"

Damon nods. "I killed my master, you know. The first transformation."

"I wondered."

"I loved him. He was more of a father than that... _donkey_ in the castle could ever have been. We just didn't know what was happening. What are you doing here?"

"I thought if the local dragon could find it in him to let me into his life… I'd raise sheep for him."

Damon looks hopeful, briefly, and then shocked, and then smug, all in the space of a few seconds, expression after expression chasing themselves across his face. "What makes you think he even wants to see you again?"

Alaric stands straight, and considers his toes for a long moment. "Does he?"

Alaric can't be sure who has stepped first, but a moment later, they're locked tight in a fierce embrace. Damon's arms go around Alaric's neck, and his chin hooks Alaric's shoulder, warm body melting into Alaric's arms. So warm. Alaric wants to say things. Promise Damon he will never wake with knife in his heart, or angry villagers coming to tear him from his home. But Damon must know, because there are warm lips at his throat.

They pull apart just far enough so their mouths may meet, and Damon is pulling him back towards the bed like the intervening months never occurred.


End file.
